For a Better Tomorrow
by Bipbop-dipdop
Summary: In a world controlled by the Galra, assassin Pidge is tasked with the impossible: take out space pirate Lance McClain in exchange for information on her missing brother. But, caught in the crossfire of a battle between Lance, his rival Keith Kogane, and the Galray, all plans of killing him fall apart. Stranded, the outlaws must join rebels Shiro and Hunk to save themselves.
1. An Impossible Task

Pidge Gunderson, self-proclaimed "deadliest assassin" and the Milky Way Galaxy's number three most-wanted criminal, hated the smell of the city.

Well, mainly just the lower part; the part that hosted Steel City's biggest lowlifes, top criminals, and every other shady bastard that Pidge ever encountered. The Rust District, it was so affectionately nick-named. Trash littered the sides of the empty roads, tumbling over itself in the hot, sticky wind, wafting fumes that smelled older than herself into her face. Dark alleys with men wearing battered leather trench coats and hats tipped over their bloodshot eyes beckoned, offering their wares—drugs, weapons, poisons—to anyone who gave them a passing glance.

Pidge pulled the thick hood she wore farther over her head, obscuring the face she knew looked too young for this part of town. Information streamed over the shiny lenses of her glasses, invisible to everyone except her. Records over anyone stupid enough to show their face from under torn hats and hoods; names, addresses (if they even had one), and any warrant out for their arrest.

A catcall sounded from one of the alleys, a man with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a grin missing at least four teeth. Pidge grimaced and kept walking, paying him no heed, but his calling continued.

She let the knife hidden up her sleeve slip into her hand, light reflecting off the steel and into his eyes. His calling stopped abruptly and a small smile graced Pidge's lips. _Serves you right._

A flickering neon sign signaled she had arrived. The arrow, bent awkwardly at the end, pointed at a battered door. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

The smoke hit her before anything else did—a mix of cigarettes and bliss, the newest underground drug on the market, the sickly-sweet scent blending horribly with the bitter tang of cigarette smoke. The air was so thick with it that she could hardly see, and the dim lighting did nothing to help. A bar tender poured drinks at the dinky wooden counter, covered in scratches and chips where countless fights most likely broke out on the daily. Patrons of all shapes and sizes sipped drinks and listened to the staticky music crackling out of the speakers mounted to the walls.

The air was sticky with the thick smoke. It clung to Pidge's skin like oil and weighed down the already-stifling cloak she wore. The clothes she wore—thin, durable leather that would hold up in a fight—didn't help.

Pidge sat at the counter, the stool creaking as she settled onto it. She grimaced as the scrawling words on her lenses informed her that the smoke concentration in this room was far above optimal and would start to affect her head soon. She had to make this quick.

Someone in a similar cloak settled into the stool next to her and flagged down the bartender with a gloved hand. "Old-fashioned, please."

Pidge straightened ever so slightly. "One for me as well."

She felt the other man's grin rather than saw it, and her shoulders tensed. The knives strapped to her—under her sleeves, pants—and the mini blaster hidden under the folds of her cloak suddenly felt heavier.

"So, we meet at last," the man said after the bartender walked away. His voice was soft and velvety, the voice of a man who knew who he sat with and still felt safe.

Pidge said nothing, opting to let him talk instead. _Get a feel for them_, her brother's voice whispered in her head, a distant memory of a time long ago, _let them reveal more than you._

"So quiet," the man observed. "You and I will get along just fine."

The bartender brought their drinks. The man grabbed it with delicate fingers and swirled the coppery liquid around the glass. Pidge watched his movements, trying to glean anything she could from them. He took a sip. "Not very good, but better than I expected." He eyed her hands, still resting on the counter. "Not touching yours?"

She had to keep her head clear. Her alcohol tolerance was low because of her age and size, but she couldn't look suspicious. She took a careful sip of the drink.

The man smiled. "Shall we take this somewhere more private?"

Pidge suppressed a shudder. His voice unnerved her, and the way he spoke… "yes."

He dropped his payment for the two drinks on the counter and led her to a table in the corner of the bar, far less smoky than the counter. They sat facing each other, neither removing their hoods. He took another drink of the whiskey. "I have an important job for you."

Pidge chuckled. How dramatic. "I would assume so, considering the hidden identity."

His mouth, the only part of his face Pidge could see, tightened. "I could say the same about you."

She laughed again and took a deliberate sip of her drink. _Stay relaxed._ "It shouldn't surprise you that I don't show my face."

"Perhaps," he replied. "What is surprising is your size. I wasn't expecting an assassin so… small."

Pidge smirked. She'd heard this before. "Nobody expects that."

He shrugged and swirled the glass around in his hand. "I suppose you're right." He took a long drink, draining the last of his glass. "But I digress, I need you to… take out a particular thorn in my side. How much do you charge?"

"Depends on who the thorn is."

He sighed. "A pirate."

Pidge grimaced. A space pirate, one of the many that roamed their galaxy. Ever since the Milky Way was turned into a trade outpost for the Galra empire, long after they exhausted their use of the inhabitants as slaves, countless pirates joined the massive cargo ships in transit between systems. Most weren't super well known or successful, but that didn't mean they weren't damn difficult to track down. If she was lucky, she could catch them while they were docked on Earth, but usually she had to hitch a ride on a cruiser and wait for them to come to her. It wasn't impossible—she'd taken down a few before—but it was difficult.

"I need a name," Pidge told him.

"Lance McClain."

She froze.

Lance McClain. _The_ Lance McClain. The Galra's number one most wanted, a spot Pidge had coveted for years. The most well-known pirate in this galaxy, maybe even on this side of the universe. The elusive, cunning, charming, and absolutely deadly Lance McClain. He had more successful heists to his name than most obscure pirates had _combined_. He was ruthless, and brilliant, and took down Galra cruisers and cargo ships with ease. Thousands of people had it out for him, and hundreds had died trying to take him out. Going after him was suicide.

"No."

The man tensed. "What?"

"I said no," she repeated. "You're asking for me to go on a suicide mission."

"Are you not the best?" He hissed, white teeth flashing under his cloak.

"I _am_ the best," Pidge snapped. "And I'm smart enough to know that I will _die_ if I try and take down McClain."

She could feel the man's anger rolling off him in waves. His grip on his glass tightened. "No one is immortal, not even McClain."

"Keep your voice down!" Pidge hissed as a man's red-eyed gaze slid to them. He blew a puff of smoke in their direction and turned back around. She leaned closer to the man and lowered her voice. "He is impossible to reach and, even if I could get past his defenses, he is a _hell_ of a fighter. So no."

The man bared his teeth. "So you're _refusing?"_

"Yes," Pidge fired back. "I'm refusing. No amount of money you pay me will be enough. We're done here."

She shoved away from the table and stood.

"What if I told you I have information on where your brother is?"

She froze. Her heart skipped a beat. "What."

She heard his grin in his voice. "You kill Lance McClain, I tell you what I know about your brother."

It was impossible. No one knew where Matt was, and he was most likely dead. The Galra caught him almost two years ago and most outlaws were dead before they even hit the work camps. And on top of that, no one knew that _Pidge Gunderson_ was related to Matt Holt. There was no way this man knew where he was, and yet… "how." She turned around.

A flash of purple skin under the delicate cloak sleeve, deliberately shown. Pidge stiffened, hand reaching for the blaster at her belt. The man chuckled. "Don't be so worried, I am breaking just as many laws as you by meeting you here."

Pidge slid back into her seat, hand still resting on the gun. "And I'm supposed to believe that."

The man reached for Pidge's drink and took a sip. "I'm not telling you to believe anything. Just know that none of my men can take out McClain, so I had to settle for… other methods."

That was her. She was always the "other method," but it was never for the Galra. Always for humans. As much as she considered herself with no allegiance to either group—rebels or Galra—she was always far fonder of her own species. Especially since she lived under Galran rule. "What's stopping me from torturing you for information now."

The man chuckled and set the now-empty glass down. "The communicator on my wrist. The uproar that would start at my death. Your head on a pike." He shrugged. "Your choice."

Pidge's mouth tightened. Going after McClain was still a death wish, and there was a very low chance that she'd even be able to get to him at all, but Matt… "I think we might be able to work something out."

That man grinned. "Perfect."

* * *

**At long last, it's here, the Voltron Cyberpunk AU I've been hinting at for over a year! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and are excited for what's to come.**

**Find me on tumblr as biplet!**


	2. Lounges and Labs

Hunk Garrett took pride in his lounge.

The place had a certain charm to it. The dim but still perceptible lighting, the neon that ran under the counters and around nooks in the wall, the long couches and tables… it was as much home to him as his own apartment was.

The patrons were a part of why he enjoyed it so much, of course. He was proud to say that no Galra ever stepped through his doors. Every member was human, and the only requirement they had to stay was to be respectful. All patrons knew that they could be evicted at a moment's notice by the plenty of employees Hunk had on hand.

He nodded towards a young woman—a regular customer, who always had gossip to share—lounged on one of the couches. She smiled at him and went back to talking to the group she sat with.

Hunk turned towards the long wall of bottles behind him. Rows and rows of drinks wrapped around a cylinder in the middle of the bar, his counter wrapped around with it. It glowed softly behind the drinks, colors fading into others every few moments. He eyed a bottle on the top shelf, one that was only opened when a certain customer came in, and smiled at the memory. Lance McClain, paying for his entire crews' drinks after a successful raid, talking loudly with the widest grin Hunk had ever seen on a person.

The space pirate was charming, Hunk had to admit. A dangerous, cunning, and bloodthirsty criminal, but charming, nonetheless. And, as long as he put good coin into Hunk's pockets, Hunk wouldn't tell a soul he was there.

McClain hadn't been around in a while, though, and the last Hunk heard he was looting his way through the far side of the Milky Way, taking out Galra ship after Galra ship. Another reason Hunk never reported him to the authorities when he came by. _The enemy of my enemy is my friend._

Hunk continued to serve drinks as the night wound down and patrons flitted in and out. It was late at night—or early in the morning, rather—when the buzz of the lounge finally died down to just a few people. He contemplated closing for the night when a thump sounded at the counter behind him.

Confused, he turned around. Usually people sat on the side nearest to the door, and he was around the other side of the large cylinder, out of sight from the other customers. A hooded figure sat hunched over the bar, small and lithe under the cloak. He was about to ask what they wanted when he noticed their gloved hand tapping away on the counter. He sighed. "Pidge, you really should come by _after_ I close shop."

She lifted her head and pulled the hood back. "Couldn't wait. Give me something to drink."

Hunk poured her a drink and passed it to her. "You're going to pay me this time, right?"

She waved her hand. "Yeah, yeah."

He sighed. Pidge only came by when she was frustrated or upset, and often times it was about her… _work._ Work that Hunk couldn't discuss with her out in the open. He wanted to ask what was wrong, but… "I'll close up soon, and then we can talk."

She mumbled in reply. He walked to the other side of the wraparound counter and served his last few drinks before announcing closing. Once everyone had left (some walking, some stumbling), he locked the door and closed the curtains.

Pidge sat on one of the couches now, holding a refilled glass. Hunk grabbed his own drink and sat down across from her. "Okay, what's wrong."

She shook her head and took a drink. After a bit of silence, she said, "I got a new job yesterday."

Hunk quirked an eyebrow. So this _was_ about work. Good thing he'd closed up. "And?"

She went silent again, staring into her glass. He was about to ask again when she said, "I've been hired to kill Lance McClain."

Hunk almost choked. He began coughing and she looked up, alarmed. He held up a finger. Finally, the coughing ceased, and he looked up at her with watery eyes. "You're joking."

She shook her head.

A million thoughts raced through his mind at once. McClain was unkillable, his ship unsinkable. Everyone who had tried to take him out so far was _dead_. "Katie that's suicide!"

She cringed. "Don't call me that."

"You're going to your death if you go after him," Hunk continued, ignoring her discomfort. "What the hell could've possibly convinced you to take the job?"

She looked at him with burning eyes. "The client has information on Matt."

Hunk stopped short. _What?_

Matt Holt, missing for almost two years and presumed dead, buried away in some Galra prison camp. Hunk had long since given up hope of finding him after his capture, and he assumed Pidge had too. How long had she held onto hope?

Matt and Katie Holt were once names that were well known by all. The Holt siblings, two of the deadliest assassins out there. They almost always worked together, were formidable in a fight, and no one knew what they looked like save the people they killed and the very select few they interacted with. They weren't the most wanted by any means—other, more experienced hitmen held much higher spots on the most wanted list—but they worked fast and charged less.

But when Matt Holt was caught in a solo job, arrested, and thrown in prison, Katie Holt disappeared. Very few knew what happened to her; now that he thought about it, Hunk might be the only one. Rumors flew, but no one could find her. As the manhunt for Katie Holt ensued, a new name, Pidge Gunderson, rocketed to the top of the most wanted list. The Holt siblings were lost to memory.

"Matt?" Hunk spluttered. "How would he have information on Matt?"

Pidge fidgeted with her hands, pulling at the gloves. "He was Galra."

Hunk froze. "Pidge-"

"I know, I know, okay?" She ground out. "Matt would kill me if he was here, I know the drill, but can you say he wouldn't do the same for me?"

Hunk opened his mouth, but nothing came out. She was right, Matt would've done anything to get her back if she was missing, even if it meant his own death.

She finally met his eyes, and they were filled with a spark he hadn't seen since Matt was captured. "I don't like it either, Hunk, but I have to."

He sighed. She always won him over in the end. "Okay, but at least let me help somehow."

"I'm not sure you can."

He eyed her right hand. "I can at least take a look at that, see if it needs any tune-ups."

Pidge pulled the glove off, revealing the shiny metal hand underneath. She studied it, opening and closing her fist and flexing her fingers. The prosthetic still looked fairly new, with only a few scratches here and there. Pretty good for over a year of constant use. "Is it responding okay? No random spasms?"

She shook her head. "It works fine." She flexed her fingers again before pulling the glove back on.

When she lost her hand, Pidge was furious. The only way to get reliable prosthetics was by paying a ton of money—more than she could afford—and now she would have a distinct feature that could easily identify her in a crowd. She had come to Hunk to vent, but it didn't take him long to realize he could make her a prosthetic. It wasn't his area of expertise by any means, but he had to admit that he was proud of it.

Hunk wasn't satisfied with her response. "I'm going to check it up anyways. Come by tomorrow morning."

She rolled her eyes at his concern, but he knew she was secretly grateful for it.

They talked for a bit, but it didn't take long for Pidge's eyes to start drooping. When Hunk brought it up, she denied it, but not even two minutes later she was drifting in and out of consciousness. When she finally fell asleep, Hunk lifted her too-tiny body and carried her up the stairs into his home that rested above the lounge. As gently as he could he set her on the couch and pulled a blanket over her.

Watching her chest rise and fall, he sighed. Pidge was far too young for the life she led, and he told her this often. 18 was not the age to take murder contracts, nor was any age for that matter. He'd offered her a place to stay and a steady job working with him once she turned 18 multiple times, but every time she turned him down, even after she came of age.

They were both too young for any of the garbage they went through, he supposed. He was only 21, supplying illegal weaponry to rebel groups and running a bar as a front. But the Galra had forced them into their situations, and the only way to change it was to fight back.

Hunk lied awake for a long while, worried for life of the young girl asleep on his couch.

* * *

"There," Hunk backed away from the computer wired into Pidge's hand. "That should be it."

"Cool," she detached the wires and hopped off the table. She approached the computer, reading the lines of numbers and words on the screen. "I could've done some of it myself, y'know." Her eyes met his. "Let you work on more important things."

He waved his hand. "You're important."

Pidge felt her face heat up. "Whatever."

Hunk laughed and handed her the glasses resting on the table. She put them on, thankful for the familiarity. "Those are really cool. How'd you make them?"

"A magician never reveals her secrets." She wiggled her fingers.

Hunk rolled his eyes. "Tell me another time then."

Pidge nodded, and Hunk returned to his computer.

Hunk's workshop was well lit despite it being underground. Lights ran all along the ceiling, and even more were strung up along the walls in places where he needed extra lighting. Some worktables had lamps as well. Parts, wires, and scrap metal littered the tables, mixed in with his tools. One wall housed a long shelf filled with various gadgets and instruments that Pidge often found herself ogling. Usually she wanted nothing more than to stay here and help Hunk build, but she almost never had the time.

Pidge picked up a half-finished gun resting on a table. It looked a little like her own blaster, except longer and thinner. "What's this for?"

Hunk glanced over his shoulder. "Oh. Takashi Shirogane ordered it."

"Huh." Pidge set the gun back down.

Takashi Shirogane. Another name everybody knew. Leader of the rebellion and number two on the most-wanted list. Pidge had never met him personally—Matt had, once—but she knew enough about him to know that she would be stupid to get on his bad side. There was a reason she never accepted any contracts concerning his rebels.

For the longest time after he began his group, Pidge thought him an idiot. Every rebel group before his was crushed, and to form a new one was certain death. But as the years went on and the Galra still had not caught him, nor had any idea what he even looked like, Pidge came to respect him.

"So," Pidge turned around and leaned against the table. "How should I get to McClain?"

"Don't ask me," Hunk replied, not looking up from his work. "I'm not getting involved. McClain is dangerous."

Pidge crossed her arms. "So am I."

"Another reason I'm not getting involved, then," Hunk said. He turned and pointed a screwdriver at her. "Two dangerous people don't make a safe environment."

Pidge rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the smile that broke out on her face. Damn Hunk and his ability to make her smile.

"I know I can't change your mind," Hunk said, turning back around to his worktable. "But please, Pidge. Please be safe."

Pidge glanced down at her hand and sighed. "I'll do my best."

Hunk sighed but said nothing.

* * *

Lying on her bed in her run-down apartment, Pidge wanted nothing more than to pass out right then and there, but she needed to plan. Her mind ran at 90 miles an hour, going through idea after idea on how to get to McClain, the sneaky bastard.

She played with her blaster, swirling it around her fingers. It kept her body from completely giving into exhaustion while she thought. At least McClain had a recognizable face; she couldn't say the same for some of the other notorious pirates out there.

Pidge sighed and rolled over to face her laptop. "Show me cargo routes for this week."

Her computer beeped and the projector clicked on, showing a detailed map of Galra cargo ships across the galaxy. She scanned the map, swiping her hand across the floating blue projection to change the view.

_C'mon, c'mon…_

_There!_

A tiny little cargo ship, checking in in four days before getting back on its route to the other side of the galaxy, near McClain's last sighted position. Its cargo was "classified," which made it the perfect target for McClain. Its size would make it difficult for her to stow away, but it was her best shot at reaching the pirate. She hoped that he had the same trade map as her.

Pidge shut off the projector and set her blaster on the bedside table. She could continue planning in the morning. Already, sleep clawed at the edges of her vision. With a yawn, she shut off her lamp and snuggled into the blankets. Sleep took her within five minutes.

* * *

**Sorry it's been so long since the last update. Things got a little crazy. I was halfway across the country when the travel bans started going up, and my sister was overseas, so between getting myself and her home, things have been pretty chaotic. I hope this chapter makes up for my absence.**

**I hope everyone is doing okay in this time of crisis 3**


End file.
